The Perfect Candidate: A Lance Priest / Preacher Thriller (No. 1) by Christopher Metcalf Page A
Authors: Christopher Metcalf
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Books, maps, catalogs but most of all, people. The kid seems to possess a photographic memory and is able to grab certain aspects of everything he sees, hears, smells and touches. His practice involves borrowing these aspects and putting them into action. He plays different characters from minute to minute. It showed up mainly in the interview transcripts Braden and other compartmentalized agency members had gathered in just over six weeks. Interviewees would depict different people when describing candidate Priest. Utterly and totally different with detail piled upon detail. That took practice.
Wyrick thumbed through Braden’s report for a 10 th time and stopped on the passage he liked most. It read, “Candidate is perhaps most comfortable when faced with a challenge or set of challenges. He appears to excel, even live, for these moments when his current paradigm is challenged and a creative, improvised response is required. He has purposefully placed himself in these situations time and time again. It is as though he views these challenging situations as opportunities to practice, or better, perfect his performance skills.” Wyrick smiled to himself and put his finger to the headphone on his ear to get a better “view” of the room.
One hundred and fifty yards away, sitting in front of his television with made-for-TV characters regurgitating lame lines followed by laugh tracks, a road atlas of the United States beside him, a phone book open to the yellow pages on his lap and an architectural reference guide in his hands, Lance put in motion plans for his next practice and envisioned success. The winning moment he saw in his mind was not being offered a Foreign Service job at the end of a serpentine bureaucratic governmental process. No, his goal was fooling them all into thinking he had a clue where he was going and what he was doing with his life. He practices for this particular result each and every day. The thrill for him is in the chase, not the end.
A disembodied Lance floating above could only look at himself on the couch below and try like hell to see what he’d missed. He searched for clues. Was there a bug listening to him? Was there a video camera somewhere in the apartment? He knew something was there. He just couldn’t see it. Frustrating .
Chapter 11
Nondescript . That was the word the floating, hovering Lance used to describe the federal government building in Downtown Dallas. He was back where the fun had started three days before; watching from above as the earthbound Lance entered the building to begin his new life.
Lance rode the elevator to the fifth floor at 7:45 a.m. The gal in her mid-20s riding up with him was headed to the same session. He now knew her as Sarah Ridenour, not her real name. They smiled at each other upon entering the lift and casually looked away during the ride.
He couldn’t help but read her. Twenty-five. No ring left hand third finger, but there was an indent from a band. Blue contacts. Designer knock-off suit and size 7 ½ two-inch heels. Soccer player back in high school – medial collateral scar below her left kneecap. But the smell didn’t fit. She wore Diorissimo perfume, the fragrance Annette, Jimmy Lee’s wizened secretary at the dealership wore. It didn’t fit a 25-year-old.
Lance did a little recall assessment during the slow upward drift of the ancient elevator. He had scouted out the building, available parking and multiple traffic options the previous evening. His drive in from Richardson before 7 a.m. was pleasantly uneventful as he beat much of the morning’s rush-hour traffic aiming towards the glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown Big D. The parking lot he chose offered all day for $12. He tipped the lot attendant an extra $5 to make sure no one parked behind him, potentially blocking him in until 5 p.m. The interior of the building was as vanilla as its exterior. Grey walls, greyer linoleum floors, no surprises.
He politely held his hand
Wyrick thumbed through Braden’s report for a 10 th time and stopped on the passage he liked most. It read, “Candidate is perhaps most comfortable when faced with a challenge or set of challenges. He appears to excel, even live, for these moments when his current paradigm is challenged and a creative, improvised response is required. He has purposefully placed himself in these situations time and time again. It is as though he views these challenging situations as opportunities to practice, or better, perfect his performance skills.” Wyrick smiled to himself and put his finger to the headphone on his ear to get a better “view” of the room.
One hundred and fifty yards away, sitting in front of his television with made-for-TV characters regurgitating lame lines followed by laugh tracks, a road atlas of the United States beside him, a phone book open to the yellow pages on his lap and an architectural reference guide in his hands, Lance put in motion plans for his next practice and envisioned success. The winning moment he saw in his mind was not being offered a Foreign Service job at the end of a serpentine bureaucratic governmental process. No, his goal was fooling them all into thinking he had a clue where he was going and what he was doing with his life. He practices for this particular result each and every day. The thrill for him is in the chase, not the end.
A disembodied Lance floating above could only look at himself on the couch below and try like hell to see what he’d missed. He searched for clues. Was there a bug listening to him? Was there a video camera somewhere in the apartment? He knew something was there. He just couldn’t see it. Frustrating .
Chapter 11
Nondescript . That was the word the floating, hovering Lance used to describe the federal government building in Downtown Dallas. He was back where the fun had started three days before; watching from above as the earthbound Lance entered the building to begin his new life.
Lance rode the elevator to the fifth floor at 7:45 a.m. The gal in her mid-20s riding up with him was headed to the same session. He now knew her as Sarah Ridenour, not her real name. They smiled at each other upon entering the lift and casually looked away during the ride.
He couldn’t help but read her. Twenty-five. No ring left hand third finger, but there was an indent from a band. Blue contacts. Designer knock-off suit and size 7 ½ two-inch heels. Soccer player back in high school – medial collateral scar below her left kneecap. But the smell didn’t fit. She wore Diorissimo perfume, the fragrance Annette, Jimmy Lee’s wizened secretary at the dealership wore. It didn’t fit a 25-year-old.
Lance did a little recall assessment during the slow upward drift of the ancient elevator. He had scouted out the building, available parking and multiple traffic options the previous evening. His drive in from Richardson before 7 a.m. was pleasantly uneventful as he beat much of the morning’s rush-hour traffic aiming towards the glass and steel skyscrapers of downtown Big D. The parking lot he chose offered all day for $12. He tipped the lot attendant an extra $5 to make sure no one parked behind him, potentially blocking him in until 5 p.m. The interior of the building was as vanilla as its exterior. Grey walls, greyer linoleum floors, no surprises.
He politely held his hand
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